FLUTTERBUG

It all began as a bit of fun:
his secret weekly treat.
But never a day passes now
without furtively sneaking out,
avoiding detection by suspicious wife
while she's busy cleaning the house.

Closing front door, quiet as a mouse.
Very carefully does it:
mustn't crunch on the gravel drive.
Phew!
Safely obscured by conifer hedge.
Now for freedom a desperate bolt.

Neighbouring houses, trees, stream by
in a dizzy blur of elation.
Distance rapidly increasing between
himself and feared detention.

Tingling from scalp to the soles of feet
that barely connect with asphalt,
as breathless excitement propels him on.
Supermarket, chemist, newsagents; all
rise up then retreat in a flash, while he flies

over Mediterranean sea in his mind
to sandy palm-shaded beaches,
where gentle blue waves lap the shores
and exotic cocktails await him.

The doors swing open and pure adrenaline
shoots him straight inside
with the full force of a strongbow bolt.
His eagerness he can no longer hide.

Proffering his Soul to a Deity in exchange
for wealth redistribution,
he slams his coins down, loud as thunder
on the bookie's dark green counter.

'Two pounds on Russian Boy, please Burt,
in today's two-thirty race.'

And, without a doubt, he's doubly sure
that this time he's onto a winner...